


The Parts That Bind Us

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, It's just cute, Kid Fic, Kinda, M/M, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 03:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Kids are a nightmare. Their hot dads are not.





	The Parts That Bind Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts).



> For the lovely Platinum on her birthday! I hope Patrick and his demon child warm your heart. 
> 
> Huge thank you to @SnitchesAndTalkers for some very last-minute beta-ing. 
> 
> [Title from Live When We Die by Electric Century.]

“Jack!” Patrick screams at the top of his lungs, “Jack, please, come back here!” 

People are staring. People are watching him sprint across the park and only the polite ones are hiding their laughter behind their hands. 

Patrick would care if he wasn’t overtaken with panic, his gaze fixed only upon the small boy who is barrelling away from him at speeds he can’t hope to match. 

“Jack!” he yells again, painfully aware that the air isn’t coming quite as easy as it was a few seconds ago. “Jack – stop, please!” His breaths scrape through his lungs and catch in his throat, and there’s that familiar tightening sensation. His inhaler is back in his abandoned rucksack. His son is running towards the main road. The wheezes whistling from his mouth are making his head spin. 

Running turns into stumbling, his vision blurring and his muscles burning. He needs to stop, to sit down, but Jack isn’t stopping or sitting down so Patrick has to keep going, keep forcing air into his closed-up lungs and blink away the black spots swimming at the corners of his vision. 

He’s so focused on wrenching his limbs forward that he hardly notices the incoming shape, barely even hears the shout as he barrels into another body and sends them both reeling. It’s only when arms clamp around his shoulders and a smile blinds him that he realises he’s not moving anymore. 

“Whoa, buddy,” guy-with-grin says, “watch where you’re going.” 

Patrick pushes at the hands on his arms and they let go, but when he starts to stagger onwards, he can’t see Jack anywhere. The asthma and the panic begin to blur into one big breathless monster. 

“Hey, wheezy, you alright?” guy-with-grin says from somewhere, and Patrick swears he hears an actual laugh.  _ Fucker.  _ “Seriously, buddy.” Then there’s a hand on Patrick’s arm and Patrick feels a burst of anger in his already overcrowded chest because this guy doesn’t  _ understand,  _ if he doesn’t find Jack quick then he might have to call the police like last time. 

“Dude, are you asthmatic?” guy-with-grin tries, “do you have an inhaler?” 

Patrick should pull away. He should yank his arm away from this guy and go after his kid like a real, functioning father would do. Then again, if this oxygen deprivation continues, he might actually die, and that wouldn’t do his kid a lot of good either. “In – the bag,” he manages to puff, waving in the general direction of their picnic bench. 

“Okay, buddy, come sit down,” guy-with-grin tells him, guiding him towards a big plastic chicken on a metal spring. “Naomi!” he shouts over Patrick’s shoulder, “Follow that kid!” 

Patrick hears a faint groan in response, but guy-with-grin doesn’t do any more shouting, and soon, Patrick’s sat firmly on the chicken, cursing every time it wobbles. He slumps over, desperately trying to calm his breaths and relax his throat. It’s not the worst he’s ever had, but it’s possibly the worst timed, and he just can’t seem to drag the air in fast enough to fuel both his panic and his pulse. He hangs onto the chicken for dear life. 

It seems years of endless wheezing before guy-with-grin returns, Patrick’s rucksack thrown over his shoulder and the little blue plastic lifesaver in his hand. Patrick can’t scrabble for it fast enough; the relief as the medicated air opens up his throat is almost unearthly. The feeling of air rushing into his lungs almost makes him forget that he’s lost his kid. 

“Thanks,” he gasps at the guy, who’s crouched in front of him like he’s just scraped his knee. 

“S’alright. Just don’t run after them if you can’t handle it, buddy.” 

At that, Patrick snaps his gaze to the guy. He’s wearing shorts with glaring fluorescent stripes and a tight grey t-shirt that might as well say  _ look at my abs  _ on the front of it. “What?” Patrick says, enunciating the word carefully. 

“Look, you’re trying your best, I get that they can be a handful. Just – you know, at that age, they really shouldn’t be storming off like that.” 

Patrick takes one more puff of his inhaler and steadies himself on the chicken. “Listen,  _ buddy, _ ” he hisses, “I don’t need parenting advice from  _ you. _ ” He surprises himself with his own viciousness. “I’ve gotta – I’ve –“ he stammers, pushing himself to his feet and staring in the direction his son careered off to. 

But guy-with-grin just won’t quit; he’s in front of Patrick in the blink of an eye, steadying him and shaking his head. “Man, sit down. Look,” he points towards a patch of trees at the far end of the park where a girl is waving to them both. “Naomi’s found him.” 

_ Thank God,  _ Patrick thinks, not out loud so as not to inflate this idiot’s ego,  _ thank all the gods.  _ He can finally breathe unimpeded. He attempts a stride but settles for an exhausted jog towards the trees, whilst Pete keeps up with irritating ease. On the one hand, Patrick knows he should probably be more grateful for this guy, what with saving his life and finding his kid, but on the other hand, this guy runs for  _ fun.  _ Hating him is inevitable, really. 

“He won’t come out,” the girl – Naomi – says when they reach the trees.  _ Of course he won’t, he’s a demon child sent to make my life hell, _ Patrick’s mind supplies, but he puts on a smile anyway and tries to dispose of the residue of panic as quickly and quietly as he can. 

“Jack,” Patrick calls, his wrecked voice cracking horribly, “Jack, it’s daddy. Please come out and talk to me,” he begs, watching the corner of black t-shirt peeking from behind the nearest tree. 

He staggers closer, leaning against the bark and hoping that for once, in front of these people, that Jack might be reasonable. He hears the scuff of trainers from the other side of the tree.

“Look, Jacky, we can’t always get ice cream when we come here, okay? Otherwise it’s not a special treat. I know you were angry, but we’ve talked about this, you can’t run away like that, you almost killed daddy.” 

He perhaps shouldn’t have played the guilt card, it’s not exactly a favourite of the parenting guides, but it seems to work, because a hand snakes around the trunk of the tree and two big dark eyes peer up at him. “You shouted,” Jack pouts, and Patrick would like to scream because he did  _ not  _ shout, he went to great lengths not to shout, but it seems Jack is throwing the guilt card back in his face. Patrick would like to appreciate that he’s raised such a sophisticated little shit, but in the moment, all he can appreciate is the  _ little shit  _ part. 

“So did you, Jack,” he sighs, sinking into a crouch and reaching out to the boy. “So why don’t we both say sorry for shouting, and then have a last go on the swings, yeah?” 

Jack looks suspicious at best, but he finally shows himself and takes Patrick’s outstretched hand. “Sorry, daddy,” he mumbles, and Patrick would make him say it again if he had the patience, but for now he lets it slide. 

“I’m sorry too,” Patrick replies, exhaling with relief when Jack moves closer and wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck, burying his face – and probably wiping his nose – in Patrick’s jacket. Patrick hugs him tight, inhaler still clasped in his hand, and hopes guy-with-grin is re-evaluating his judgement of Patrick. 

They’re both still watching Patrick when he gets to his feet and leads Jack away from the tree. Guy-with-grin’s got his namesake smeared across his face and Naomi is just looking relatively fed up. 

“All good?” the man asks, and oh  _ god,  _ he’s only starting to walk with Patrick.  _ Go away, _ Patrick thinks aggressively,  _ leave me and my appalling parenting alone.  _

Instead, he simply nods, flashing a fake smile and hoping Jack won’t choose right now to throw one of his random punches into Patrick’s stomach. 

“You come here often?” guy-with-grin asks, still carrying Patrick’s backpack loosely on his shoulder. 

Patrick decides to play nice. There’ll be time to mull over the humiliation later. “Yeah – weekends get pretty restless otherwise.” 

The guy laughs – a stupid, annoying noise, Patrick decides – then obviously thinks it’s appropriate to ask, “So, what are you up to tomorrow?” 

Patrick can’t decide if it’s a joke or not. He hasn’t paid enough attention to decide if the guy’s gay – could this be a date invitation? He’s hot, sure, he’s got a torso to die for and his face isn’t too shabby either; Patrick would be batting way out of his league if their positions were reversed, but – no. He’s not serious. Patrick almost tells him where to go but instead replies curtly, “I’m afraid I’m busy tomorrow night.” 

Guy-with-grin throws him a confused glance. “Well, I meant tomorrow morning, actually. I coach soccer on Sundays, you could bring Jack along for a trial, if you like. He’s obviously very athletic.” 

Patrick sincerely hopes that the rush of blood to his cheeks doesn’t show on his face. “Oh,” he says, “Well, that – “  _ that would be hell on earth, but it might be worth it if it means he actually sleeps for once,  _ “that would be great.” 

“Cool, alright,” the guy says with a smile, then points to the opposite end of the park. “We practice just over there, nine to eleven, he can use some spare kit. It’s a great way to blow off some steam.” 

Patrick smiles and nods like he doesn’t loathe a sales pitch, holding back a bitter laugh at the notion that his kid runs on something as archaic as steam. Jack is fuelled by nothing less than infinite nuclear fusion. “How does that sound?” he asks his son in his nice-parent voice, pleading Jack with his eyes not to shout profanities at him. 

Jack scowls, of course he does, but it’s directed at the guy and Patrick feels a swell of snide contentment that his son hasn’t been swayed by the grin either. “Soccer’s lame,” he says, and Patrick tries not to look like he heartily agrees when he turns back to the guy. 

But the sales pitch, as it turns out, has barely begun. “Well, little man,” the guy says, slowing their pace to an almost halt as he bends to talk to Jack, “I think you’d be really good at it. You can run really fast!” 

Patrick suppresses an eyeroll, but Jack’s shy smile says that guy-with-grin is victorious. 

“Daddy?” the boy says hopefully, looking up at Patrick with the same wide eyes as the guy. Patrick purses his lips. 

“I’ll take you along tomorrow,” Patrick says finally, almost smiling at the infamous grin that appears on the guy’s face. 

“Great!” the guy says, straightening up and holding out a hand. “I’m Pete, by the way.” 

“Patrick,” Patrick grimaces, shoving his inhaler into his pocket and shaking his hand. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Patrick,” Pete responds cheerily. “Oh – your backpack,” he adds, shrugging off the bag and offering it to Patrick. 

Patrick takes it gingerly. “Thanks. And – uh, thanks for, y’know, helping out.” Pete did  _ not  _ save his life, this isn’t a fucking movie. 

“No problem,” Pete smiles, “I’m always helping out damsels in distress. Bye ‘til tomorrow, Patrick and Jack!” he calls, jogging away with Naomi in-tow before Patrick can scowl at the word  _ damsel.  _

-

Patrick begins to regret ever thinking a kid was a good idea when Jack pounces on him at six o’clock the next morning and reminds him that soccer practice starts in three measly hours and he better get up so they’re not late. The boy is almost vibrating with nervous excitement as he frantically builds Lego structures whilst Patrick tries to get him to eat his breakfast. 

But just as Patrick’s pulling into a parking space, ready to throw Jack onto the pitch and catch up on missed sleep, Jack’s putting on his well-worn frown. 

“Don’t wanna,” he says, sticking out his chin. “Don’t like them.” 

Patrick’s not sure if he’s talking about Pete and Naomi, or the other kids warming up in the distance, or soccer players in general, but Patrick suspects it’s all of them at once. “Why don’t you like them?” 

“They’re stupid. I don’t wanna play soccer.” 

Patrick lets out a short sigh and remembers what the books say about anxiety coming out sideways. “Don’t worry, Jack, it’ll be fun!” 

“No it won’t!” Jack says, loud enough to set off Patrick’s screaming-fit alarm. “I don’t wanna go!” 

Patrick unclips his seatbelt and turns to look at Jack, sitting with his arms crossed and his face like a hurricane. “Hey, okay. If you go just for today, and you don’t like it, I’m not gonna make you go every week. But –“ as much as Patrick hates to admit it, “I think you might like it. You might make some friends?” It’s a weak argument, but at least Jack doesn’t start screaming. 

“Will you stay at the side,” Jack mumbles, staring out the window at the small figures swarming around a white dot. 

Patrick sighs, mourning his nap and his warm, dry car. But if Jack’s being reasonable, he’s sure as hell not going to complain. “Sure I will,” he smiles. “I promise it’ll be alright.”

Jack still doesn’t look completely convinced, so Patrick reaches a hand towards him, palm up. 

“Trust me?” he says gently, trying to catch Jack’s downcast gaze. 

He finally fixes Patrick with his dark eyes and touches his hand to the centre of Patrick’s, resting it there for a few seconds. “Trust you,” he nods, and Patrick’s heart leaps like it does every time his son shows how far he’s come from the distressed, angry mess of a boy he used to be. 

 

Jack holds tight to his hand as they cross the field, heading for the shouting mass of children. Patrick’s rather glad of the support when he sees Pete, the lycra-wearing grin-wielding maniac, jogging towards them. 

“Hey! Glad you could make it,” he says, clapping Patrick on the back. “Got your breath back yet?” 

Patrick laughs, ignoring the satanic pools of fire sizzling in his stomach. Who does this dickhead think he is? “Uh – he doesn’t have boots,” Patrick says, after smiling for the appropriate amount of time. 

“’S alright, this is only a trial. There’s socks and shin pads in the bag,” Pete tells him, pointing to a pile of equipment, whilst Patrick tries not to let the anxiety of his child being kicked to death show on his face. 

Pete hovers around them like a Labrador as Patrick helps Jack on with his shin pads – he keeps trying to ask Jack questions that Patrick has to answer because Jack hates being talked to by pretty much everyone and Pete clearly can’t take a hint. 

Jack looks close to tears when Pete happily announces that it’s time to start and beckons him away from Patrick, but he goes anyway, armed with his shin pads and his dad’s encouraging smile. 

Half an hour later, and Patrick’s starting to thoroughly regret ever meeting Pete – he’s cold and tired and guilty watching all these kids run around when he himself can’t remember the last time he set foot in a gym. Pete – stupid, annoying, sculpted Pete – must think he’s a drain on the earth’s resources. Pete, who is currently jogging straight for him. 

“Hey,” he smiles breezily, barely out of breath, “Naomi’s giving me a break.” He gestures to the small girl from yesterday who is currently herding the children around the goal. 

“She’s your daughter, right?” Patrick asks; the matching skin and dazzling grin say  _ absolutely,  _ but he may as well make certain. 

“Yup. She’s eleven. She’s usually with the older kids, but she likes to help me out. It’s all good experience – she’s gonna be a right little athlete, I can tell you.” 

Patrick nods and smiles and tries not to worry about Jack’s future career options – at the moment, street fighting seems to be his calling. They’ll be lucky if no-one loses an eye in the next hour and a half. 

“Is Jack – uh,  _ yours _ ?” Pete says carefully, pairing the sentence with an innocent raise of his eyebrows. But Patrick’s used to this – he and Jack couldn’t look less related if they tried, and Patrick’s pretty sure Pete’s clocked that he’s gay. 

“He’s adopted,” Patrick shrugs, trying not to read too much into Pete’s look of surprise. “He was – difficult. He had a rough start, and kids his age have a hard time getting adopted, so, y’know, I took him.” 

“Wow,” Pete says, and Patrick can’t help but feel a buzz of pride at the stunned look on Pete’s face. “That’s – that’s – wow. So – is it just you, or – or d’you have a wife or, or a girlfriend, boyfriend…” he tails off, the last word like a sore thumb in his otherwise unassuming question. 

“It’s just me,” Patrick says lightly, deciding to dodge the sexuality subject, not that he has a boyfriend to prove it either way. “He can be a handful,”  _ he can be a gremlin, help me, kill me,  _ “but I love him to bits. Do you? Have a partner, I mean.” 

Pete shakes his head, and Patrick ignores the spark of interest in his chest. “Nah. We had her in high school – me and my then-girlfriend. It was all kinda scary, but she was set for college so I took the kid. It’s all amicable, y’know, we just didn’t love each other.” 

“Fair enough,” Patrick nods.  _ Alright, this guy  _ might  _ be less of an ass. Possibly.  _ He decides he needs to steer the conversation onto less personal matters before he and this man accidentally become friends. “So, uh, which school is yours at?” 

“Oh, uh, Willowbrook. It’s just around the corner,” Pete says with a vague wave of his hand. 

“Ah, Jack’s just started there. Are you happy with it?” Patrick asks, and that’s the magic question. The parental qualms come pouring out of Pete and ten minutes later they’re still talking, only interrupted by a panicked-looking Naomi as she canters towards them. 

“Dad!” she yells, “Dad, make them stop fighting!” 

And Patrick knows, before he even looks towards the clump of children, that his son is at the centre of it. He feels a kind of weary shock when he sees Jack with his teeth buried in another kid’s arm. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” he says for the fifth and hopefully final time when at last, the practice ends and Patrick is released from this hell. “I don’t know  _ why  _ he does it, it’s like he’s trying to give me a heart attack.” He catches hold of a scowling Jack’s hand and gives him a stern look. “You’re very lucky Pete was so nice about it, or you wouldn’t be allowed back next time.” 

“It’s really okay,” Pete says, even if he’s lost a little bit of his grin after spending twenty minutes comforting the poor bawling child whom Jack had savaged. “The first session is always a little daunting.” 

_ Only for the other children, _ Patrick thinks grimly, his head echoing with Jack’s distraught yells. It’s not the first time he’s had to drag his son away from a brawl, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. “He won’t do it again – will you,” Patrick shoots at the boy, who simply glowers. 

“…no,” he mumbles eventually, staring at the ground. “’m sorry.” 

Patrick almost thinks he’s picked up the wrong child as he looks down at Jack. “Did you – did you say sorry?” 

Jack doesn’t look at all happy about it, but he nods all the same. “I didn’t mean to, daddy, I got cross.” 

Patrick’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest. An apology  _ and  _ an explanation. He crouches down and scoops Jack into his arms, babbling happy noises, wondering if he’s ever been this thrilled over a biting. “That’s okay, Jacky, you’re allowed to get cross. But you’re  _ not  _ allowed to hurt people when you’re cross, do you understand? It’s not getting cross that’s naughty, it’s hurting, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Jack responds, fiddling with the zip of his jacket. 

“So, the next time you’re cross, you tell somebody about it – tell daddy or a teacher or whoever’s in charge – and maybe they can help you. And thank you for saying sorry,” Patrick smiles, pecking him on the forehead and taking hold of his hand once again. 

Jack actually nearly  _ smiles  _ at Patrick, and Patrick’s mood is suddenly the polar opposite of what it had been thirty seconds ago. He knows the reasonability won’t last, he knows that next time, Jack probably won’t say sorry or stop screaming at him, but for now, today’s going alright. 

He straightens up and gives Jack’s hand a squeeze, starting towards the car. Patrick can have a small nap when he gets home, right? He lives in hope. 

Just as they’re walking away, Pete calls out to him. “See you next week, yeah?” 

Patrick looks at Jack, waiting for his verdict. The boy doesn’t smile, but he gives a curt little nod that says he’s looking forward to next week immensely but will under no circumstances stoop to showing it.

Patrick grins. “Yeah – see you then.” 

-

“Pizza?” is the word that lands Patrick in the shit. He winces as soon as Pete says it, braces himself for the onslaught of demands that Jack begins to hurl at him. 

“Daddy? Can we? Can we go and get pizza?” Jack pleads, tugging on Patrick’s arm and grabbing at his shirt. 

“Uh…” Patrick fumbles, cursing Pete and his stupid mouth. Pizza is a special treat, pizza is a prized bargaining chip, and Pete just wasted it on a lunchtime whim. It’s been three weekends since the biting incident, and each week, Pete insists on this  _ talking  _ lark more and more. Patrick is now burdened with the knowledge of Pete’s favourite trainers, his childhood pets, and the fact that he  _ loves  _ pizza, dammit. “I’m not sure, Jack, daddy’s got work to do.” 

“Well, if you like,” Pete says with a worrying grin, “we can go for lunch, and then I can take Jack back to mine for a couple hours, give you some time to work.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly, you don’t have to –“ 

“He won’t be any trouble, right, Jack?” Pete says with a wink thrown to the boy, who shakes his head innocently. 

“I’ll be good, daddy, I promise!” he insists, but Patrick’s mostly just getting his head around the fact that Jack is being civil to another human being. 

“Hm,” Patrick hums, “you know what would also be good to daddy? If you went to bed a little earlier tonight.” 

Jack pouts, but doesn’t dismiss it out of hand. “I’ll go to bed half an hour earlier. With a story.”

“An hour.” 

“Half.” 

“Forty-five minutes and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Patrick says firmly, holding out a hand. Jack shakes it lightly, then scampers off after a stray ball that Pete’s trying to shove into a big bag. 

Patrick watches him with raised eyebrows, half proud of Jack’s bargaining skills and half terrified of their implications. He’ll either make an excellent lawyer or an excellent criminal. 

“You really don’t have to do this, you know,” he tells Pete as he shuffles cones into a pile. He’s taken to helping clear up at the end of a practice as compensation for his rabid child. “He’s not exactly low-maintenance.” 

Pete just shrugs. “He’s a good kid,” he says, like Patrick doesn’t know, “he reminds me of me. You worry too much about him, buddy. With a dad like you, he’ll be just fine.” 

Patrick is getting a little tired of Pete’s ever-open advice centre, but he accepts the compliment with a smile and a wave of his hand. “Are you sure Naomi will be alright with it?” 

They both glance across the field to see Naomi charging after a cackling Jack clutching a football tight to his chest. Pete grins and shrugs. “She likes a run around. But I’m sure she’ll let me know if she’s at all fed up with the situation. Besides, I’ll keep him entertained. All kids love Lego, right?” 

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, and don’t my feet know it.” 

Pete flashes his silly grin and laughs his braying laugh and Patrick internally rolls his eyes at the flutter in his stomach. It’s not a crush, per se; Pete’s just objectively attractive, like Beyoncé or Idris Elba. Plus, Patrick’s always had a thing for abs. He wonders if Pete has a thing for flab – they’d be a perfect match. 

 

“So – are you alright with going to Pete’s?” Patrick asks Jack on the drive to the diner. “Because if you’re not, that’s okay. You don’t have to go.” 

Jack bites his lip, but doesn’t waver. “I like Pete. He’s fun. I want to go,” he tells Patrick, and the man can see that this is one of those things Jack is determined to do, no matter how anxious he is. “Do you like him?” 

Patrick wonders if Jack’s picked up on Patrick’s little glances at Pete now and then. “Uh – yes, he’s – he’s friendly. And he invited us for pizza, so he  _ must  _ be a good guy,” Patrick grins, and Jack giggles, bouncing in his seat and drumming on his knees in anticipation. Patrick might be a little bit excited, too. 

 

The meal is – chaotic, at best. Jack has a minor meltdown when his pizza has basil on it, not helped by Naomi’s comment that he’s being silly, and Patrick ends up picking every speck of green off the pizza before the boy will go anywhere near it.

Naomi is rather frosty towards Patrick. She helps Jack with his colouring and Jack shows her how to swallow a whole slice all at once, but when Patrick asks what he considers to be good-natured questions about her sports and her coaching, he gets stunted replies and apologetic looks from Pete. 

“She’s not all that good with adults,” Pete tells him when Naomi’s skulked off to the bathroom. “Don’t take it personal. So, uh, what do you do for a living?” 

Patrick tells him about the nicer parts of being a social worker – he likes seeing kids go to better homes, he likes feeling as if he’s making some kind of change, and if it wasn’t for the job, he’d never have adopted Jack. Jack knows he’s not Patrick’s biological son, he knows he was taken away from his real parents; Patrick’s never wanted to be anything but honest with him about that. But there are some parts of his work that he won’t talk about, some parts that have to be forgotten because they don’t deserve to be remembered. That’s what he keeps from Jack – he won’t tell him what his parents did, not in detail. Right now, he needs to forget. 

Pete, as it turns out, is a manager in sports retail, which is really no less than exactly what Patrick expected. His whole life seems to revolve around sport, and even though Patrick doesn’t care in the slightest, he finds his interest sustained purely due to Pete’s genuine excitement at the whole business. 

Despite everything, he and Pete get on well; there are few awkward silences between them and by the time Patrick’s pulling into Pete’s drive to drop Jack off, he’s feeling like he may have made his first new friend in several years. 

Jack, inevitably, begins to retreat into himself as they walk to Pete’s door. Patrick mumbles words of encouragement, letting Jack bury his face in Patrick’s hip and clutch hold of his t-shirt as Pete welcomes them inside. 

“So, little buddy, can I get you a drink?” Pete asks Jack with an encouraging smile. The boy peeks out from behind his father, and Patrick can almost feel the thrum of his heartbeat through his ribcage. Jack shakes his head, but lets Patrick drag him down the hall and into Pete’s lounge, which is surprisingly tidy and even smells a little of freshly baked cakes. Pete’s clearly gone for the modern grandma look. 

Despite the rejection, Pete’s not about to give up; he beckons them both down the hall and into a room that seems to be a study and a playroom all at once – there are equal numbers of games and ring binders lining the walls. But, most importantly, there’s Lego on the floor. 

Jack’s face lights up at the sight of it, and all notions of shyness seem to dissipate from him as he falls to the floor and makes for the rather impressive castle Naomi’s obviously built. 

“Be careful with that, Jackie,” Patrick warns, hoping to God that the castle doesn’t mysterious fall to pieces like most other things Jack touches. 

“I will,” Jack insists, “you can go now.” 

Patrick laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, okay, I’ll leave,” he tuts, exchanging a smile with Pete and bending to ruffle Jack’s hair. “Bye, kiddo, see you in a couple of hours. Be good, yeah?” 

“Go  _ away,  _ daddy,” Jack insists, and Patrick rolls his eyes but steps out of the room, followed closely by Pete. 

“See? He’ll be fine,” Pete tells Patrick as they walk back through the house. “I won’t let him out of my sight.” 

Patrick nods. “Yeah that’s probably best. If he’s any trouble at all, give me a call and I’ll come pick him up.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. What do you do if he acts up, time out?” 

“No, no,” Patrick says immediately, “if he shouts, don’t react, but don’t leave the room either. Don’t shout, but don’t go silent on him. Oh – and if he starts to scream, just sit with him until he stops.”

“Whoa,” Pete says, his eyebrows rising towards his hairline. “Okay. I’ll remember that.” 

Patrick pushes down the rush of panic that bubbles within him. “Just – don’t leave him. That’s, like, the most important thing. He was – uh, he was neglected by his old family, so…”

“God,” Pete exhales. “Poor little guy. Okay, I’ll give you a call if we have any problems.” 

And this is how Patrick ends up giving Pete his phone number. Part of him wishes it was handed over after a few tentative kisses at a bar and not just in case his kid decides he’s bored of Lego and wants to give throttling a try, but he’s not complaining. He can’t help smiling as he drives back home – he’s made a  _ friend.  _

-

Sunday lunches with Pete and Naomi start to turn into a regular thing – or, Jack insists that they do, mainly due to pizza and also partially, Patrick likes to think, due to the fact that Jack has found two other people whom he doesn’t want to punch. Patrick finds himself staying for coffee most Sunday afternoons, as Jack begins to insist on having an extra half hour to finish his Lego structure or his penalty shootout with Naomi in the garden. 

All the while, Patrick’s crush is an ever-growing thorn in his side. He not even totally sure if Pete’s into guys – Patrick’s usually good at discerning sexualities after a few encounters, but Pete remains a mystery. He talks about people he’s dated in the past, and Patrick hopes for the mention of a boyfriend every time, but he’s always disappointed. It’s getting a little ridiculous – sometimes Patrick will catch himself laughing far too hard at one of Pete’s stupid jokes, smiling a little too wide, staring a little too long.

It becomes a rather embarrassing fact. Pete  _ must  _ have noticed. Hell,  _ Jack’s  _ probably noticed, and he hardly notices anything about other people. Patrick’s so far from subtle it’s laughable, but he tells himself it’ll go away. It’s a crush, that’s all. 

“So – uh, Patrick, you’re free next weekend, right?” Pete asks him over coffee and cookies one Sunday. Patrick nods – his mom’s agreed to have Jack for the weekend and Patrick is planning on sleeping for forty-eight hours straight. 

“’Cause I just wondered if you wanted to go out, or something,” Pete shrugs, “or, like, a guys’ night in or whatever.” 

_ That’s gay,  _ is Patrick’s first thought, before all his senses have processed the offer.  _ No,  _ he corrects,  _ that’s a normal thing that people do. They drink beer and eat nachos and adamantly do not have sex.  _ That’s what Pete’s asking. “Yeah, that’d be fun,” Patrick says.  _ Fun  _ is a safe choice.  _ Fun  _ is ambiguous – can be used for any situation from a shopping trip to an orgy. 

“Good,” Pete smiles, “I’ll get the beer.” 

_ See?  _ Patrick’s mind taunts,  _ a good old-fashioned straight man’s night in.  _ “I’ll bring the nachos,” Patrick smiles weakly. 

-

“He’s got a crush on you, dad,” Naomi tells Pete with the utmost confidence as he’s herding coasters into a pile with ten minutes before Patrick’s due to arrive. 

Pete snorts. “Don’t be silly,” he shoots back at her. “It’s not like you’ve even spoken to him properly.” Her dad’s dating habits have never sat particularly well with her – perhaps understandably. She doesn’t want a new mom, and she certainly doesn’t want to be the kid with two dads. 

“I don’t like him,” she says, not for the first time. “He doesn’t know anything about soccer. Or any sports. He’s a dork, dad.”

“Be that as it may,” Pete sighs, “he’s my friend. And he  _ doesn’t  _ have a crush on me – I think you’ve been watching too much TV.” 

She rolls her eyes and flops down onto Pete’s freshly-plumped couch pillows. “Whatever. He’s annoying. Is Jack coming?” 

From what Pete’s gathered, Naomi’s alright with Jack. She seems to quite like that he hangs onto her every word when it comes to soccer, and as long as she’s not around him all the time and he never, ever goes in her bedroom, she hasn’t had too many complaints. 

“Nope,” Pete replies, sitting down beside her and slinging an arm round her shoulders. She attempts to squirm away, but Pete just cuddles her tighter. “Just Patrick. An adults evening, jeez – can’t remember the last time I had one of them.” 

“Dad,” Naomi whines, pushing at Pete’s arms until he lets go. “Can I watch TV on your laptop?” she asks, suddenly hopeful. 

“I don’t see why not,” Pete grins, “as long as you try to be nice to Patrick.” 

“I’ll  _ try, _ ” she scowls, leaping off the couch and flouncing out of the room. Pete just shakes his head. There’s no way Patrick has a crush on him.

-

_ I definitely have a crush on him,  _ Patrick worries to himself as the front door opens to reveal a grin with a Pete attached. Pete’s not  _ dressed up,  _ not really, but he’s wearing a button-down shirt and as Patrick is ushered inside, he gets a whiff of aftershave.  _ Maybe it is a date, _ Patrick thinks, half expecting candles and flowers when he walks into Pete’s lounge, and a little disappointed when he sees nothing but plumped cushions. 

“Uh – I brought dip,” Patrick says, holding out an unglamorous plastic bag full of snacks. 

Pete hums his appreciation and begins clattering around in the kitchen in search of bowls, whilst Patrick wonders when exactly this all got so awkward. Maybe Patrick’s just company-starved; without Jack, he feels a little lost. There’s no-one to snap at, no-one to check up on, and it seems Patrick’s forgotten how to make conversation that isn’t about children. 

“Nice weekend so far?” Pete asks as he rounds the island armed with nachos and meanders towards the couch. 

“Oh, yeah, great – peaceful,” Patrick responds, trotting after him and telling himself he can’t look at Pete’s ass. 

“Good,” Pete says, throwing himself at the couch and fishing over the edge for the remote. “Okay, so – guys’ night in, what do you want to watch?” 

Patrick insists that he doesn’t mind in the slightest – but when they’re an hour into  _ Rocky II,  _ he really wishes he’d minded a little more. 

There’s about a metre of space between them on the couch, and it’s a little unnerving – it’s slightly too far to be altogether normal and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a man sit too far away. Straight guys have a nasty habit of thinking he’s going to try to mount them when they’re least expecting it. He really, really hopes Pete doesn’t turn out to be one of those guys. 

He turns his attention back to the men on the screen beating the shit out of each other and tries to seem interested. He swears he can feel Pete’s eyes on him, but every time he chances a glance at Pete, the man’s eyes are always fixed upon the TV. Patrick must be imagining things. 

After a few minutes, Pete pauses the movie and shows Patrick the empty bowl of chips, the springs to his feet to forage for more. Patrick deliberately doesn’t stare after him. 

When he shuffles back into the room, he seems slightly different – slightly more tense, slightly less cool. When he sits down, it’s right at the opposite end of the couch. 

“You okay?” Patrick asks lightly, hoping to God it’s nothing to do with him. 

Pete looks at him for a couple of seconds, clutching the bowl of chips to his chest protectively. “Are you – gay?” he asks awkwardly, and Patrick feels ice slip down his spine. Another friendship dead and buried. 

Patrick nods slowly. He won’t make a big deal out of it, if it’s not okay he’ll leave quickly and quietly and spend the rest of his life avoiding Pete. 

“So – so, you like – guys? Well, so – like, do you – do you like  _ me _ ?” Pete asks, and Patrick lets out a long breath. Should he lie? It’d be easy to lie. It’d be easy to laugh and say,  _ no, of course not, don’t be stupid.  _ The problem is, Pete probably already knows the answer. 

“I – well. Yes. I do. But I’m not going to let it get in the way of our friendship, so there’s no need to worry, Pete. I’m not going to act on it.” 

Pete just keeps looking at him. Patrick mentally beats himself up –  _ should’ve lied, it’s always safer to lie.  _ Pete probably now thinks Patrick was planning on fucking him at some point, and thinks he’s a disgusting pervert. 

“I can leave. If – if it makes you uncomfortable,” Patrick says softly, although he thinks he might cry if Pete really does want him gone. 

“No!” Pete says suddenly, shuffling closer to Patrick and taking hold of his wrist. “No, I don’t want that. I just – y’know, wanted to check that you  _ did  _ like me before I – well, before I – kissed you,” Pete finishes, looking away. 

Patrick feels a spark of something in his chest. “Oh,” is all he can think to say as he watches Pete lean and place the chips on the table. “I – I didn’t know you liked men.” 

Pete shrugs, his natural response to seemingly everything. “It’s – weird, I guess. I’m probably, like, the straight end of bi? But – but I dunno, I mean, I tend to just – like who I like, regardless of, y’know, genitals,” he finishes with a nervous grin and a flick of his gaze to Patrick’s crotch which sends a blush rushing to Patrick’s cheeks. 

“Okay,” Patrick says, wondering what on earth might happen next, “well, uh – “ 

He doesn’t have time to construct a response because Pete’s mouth is already on him, his lips capturing Patrick’s in a soft kiss that makes Patrick’s toes tingle. It takes Patrick a few seconds to register that there is an attractive man kissing him, but when he does, he sits up a little and brings his hands to Pete’s face, drawing him closer and cupping his sculpted jawline. 

The room is filled with the sounds of their slick lips as Pete dips his tongue into Patrick’s mouth, his hand still clasped firmly with Patrick’s. They kiss for several moments more until Pete pulls away, looking steadfastly into Patrick’s eyes. 

“Are you sure this is okay? I mean, I totally get it if you’re, y’know, not looking for a relationship – or or – “ 

“Pete, we could just see how it goes, you know,” Patrick smiles, “nothing’s set in stone. Just – please kiss me again, I haven’t had a date in eight months.” 

Pete flashes his stupid adorable grin but presses his mouth back to Patrick’s, sliding a hand into his hair and rolling their tongues together. Patrick had almost forgotten how it felt to be kissed like this – he could just about float up to the ceiling. 

When Pete’s hand glides down his chest to squeeze at his hip, Patrick feels a stir in his jeans which isn’t altogether unwelcome. On the one hand, he’d never usually expect sex on the first date – on the other, he’d really, really like to get laid. 

Deciding to test the waters, he places a hand on Pete’s thigh and slides it gently into more dangerous territory. He’s rewarded with a muffled  _ hell yes  _ and Pete’s hand thrust into his crotch, squeezing just enough to send a moan spilling from Patrick’s lips. He immediately finds said hand clamped over his mouth. 

“Shh,” Pete sounds, pointing to the stairs and mouthing _Naomi._ Patrick nods, colour rushing to his cheeks. “Bedroom?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, and they scrabble to turn off the TV and scamper carefully upstairs. 

As soon as the door’s firmly locked, they begin to kiss again, crushed up against the wall with their hands grabbing blindly at one another. Patrick tries his best to keep his moans quiet, but it’s difficult when Pete’s doing  _ that  _ with his hips. 

Pete’s fingers find his belt buckle, and Patrick takes an instinctive gulp of air as Pete’s hand worms its way into his pants and rubs against his cock. Patrick helps shove down his jeans and gasps against Pete’s mouth when Pete’s hand finally closes around his dick, warm and firm and jerking him slow enough to make him groan.

He hastens to get Pete’s pants down too, mainly to provide a distraction and stop him blowing his load before they’ve even started, but also to hear Pete whine high in the back of his throat, his rhythm stuttering and his head dropping to Patrick’s neck. 

They work to get each other’s shirts off as fast as possible - luckily for Patrick, time is of the essence, and soon, they’re both standing stark naked in front of each other. Patrick’s willing to vouch that his self-consciousness isn’t half as chronic as Pete’s, who stands like a marble sculpture in the low light of the bedside lamp, abs rippling across his chest and his thighs flexing with each shift of his weight. Patrick decides there and then to join a gym. 

But if Pete’s at all turned off by the slight pudge gathering at Patrick’s waist or his sincere lack of thigh-gap, he doesn’t say anything, and Patrick’s not about to complain. When Pete moves towards him, Patrick presses their bodies together as eagerly as is socially acceptable on their first sexual encounter, slides his hands to Pete’s ass and squeezes to a litany of moans. 

Patrick’s forgotten how good it feels to have someone’s fingers slip between his cheeks, to feel them teasing at his hole and prodding gently inside him. They reattach their mouths, climbing clumsily onto the bed. Patrick lets his legs fall open in invitation - at this point, he’s not sure he cares if Pete thinks he’s too keen. 

“Wait a sec,” Pete says suddenly, “I dunno if - wait, is Vaseline alright?” he asks, and Patrick nods. Pete could use vegetable oil as lube for all Patrick cares. 

Patrick lays there on the bed for a few seconds as Pete rummages around in the bathroom and emerges holding the lube like he’s holding the World Cup. He fishes a condom from the bedside cabinet and climbs over Patrick once again, sitting between his thighs and running a gentle hand down his chest. 

Then, he drops his head to Patrick’s crotch and licks over his cock, the sensation so sudden that Patrick’s hips buck and his hands curl into the sheets. “ _ Please _ do that again,” he gasps, and Pete throws him a grin before swallowing him down, his mouth hot and tight around Patrick’s dick and his slick fingers dipping into Patrick’s hole. “Oh my -  _ fuck - “  _

Pete suddenly stops sucking him and scowls from between his legs. “Next time, we’ll make sure we have a free house, but right now, can you please at least  _ try  _ to shut up?” 

Patrick stifles a grin and nods, his heart leaping at the mention of a  _ next time.  _ But then Pete’s mouth is back on his cock and all sane thought flees Patrick’s mind. Pete’s fingers are working in and out of him now, crooked  _ just  _ so and sending waves of pleasure crashing through Patrick.

“Pete,” he gasps, quietly this time, “Pete, I’m ready. Please.” 

Pete’s fingers slide from his ass and Pete’s tongue glides over the swollen head of his dick one last time, before Pete’s sitting up and pushing Patrick’s thighs to his chest, his dark, veined cock nudging between Patrick’s cheeks. 

The head stretches Patrick open for a burning moment, then Pete’s pushing all the way inside, his chest heaving and his golden skin shining with moisture. He’s so fucking beautiful, Patrick wonders how he ever came to be in his bed. 

Pete gives him a minute to adjust, to feel nothing but the throb of Pete’s prick inside him, the press of it against his prostate. This  _ no noise  _ rule is really starting to become a nuisance. 

He lets out a small moan as Pete begins to move, short, sharp thrusts ramming into Patrick and the slower, deeper rolls of his hips that make Patrick want to scream for more. Pete’s lips trail down Patrick’s chest, along his jaw, ghost across his lips before Pete starts to pound into him. 

Patrick begins to appreciate sportsmen a little more as Pete hefts Patrick’s legs around his hips and picks up the pace when Patrick whines a “faster!” at him. Patrick’s hands grip at Pete’s arms, press at Pete’s nipples and come to rest around his jaw, drawing him into a sloppy kiss as they both near their climaxes. Patrick’s dick leaks between them, each rub of Pete’s belly bringing it closer to the edge. 

They’re still locked in the kiss as Pete’s hips snap forward and he spills inside of Patrick, his balls tight to Patrick’s ass and every muscle tensed with the high of coming. Patrick’s hand slides to his own cock and starts to jerk it fast, spurting white ribbons over both of them within moments. 

Pete touches his lips to Patrick’s a final time, and then seems to collapse, his body limp and boneless as he sinks into the mattress beside Patrick. The only thing Patrick has energy left to do is reach for Pete’s hand and return Pete’s sex-drunk grin. 

-

Patrick almost forgets where he is the next morning. He’s expecting Jack to come barrelling in and wind him before he’s even conscious, but instead, he finds arms secured around his waist and breaths tickling his neck. 

He’d almost like to wake Pete up, see if they can sneak a round two before they have to get up, but in all honesty, he could use the sleep to far better purposes, so he simply settled back down in the sheets and shuts his eyes, enjoying the moment like he hasn’t in so long. 

 

What Patrick doesn’t anticipate is the awkwardness as he and Pete creep into the lounge to find Naomi curled on the couch watching cartoons. Jack is too young to understand, he doesn’t think anything of it on the rare occasion Patrick brings someone home, but the look Naomi throws at Patrick as he shuffles behind Pete is one of utter disdain. 

“I’ll have a word with her later,” Pete tells Patrick quietly whilst the coffee brews. “She’ll come round, don’t worry.” 

 

 

But Patrick  _ is  _ worried, and Naomi  _ doesn’t  _ come round. 

Over the next few weeks, there are a few incidents such as this, and every time, the girl seems to hate him more. It’s rather a shame - Patrick feels himself falling a little more in love with Pete during each of their stolen nights together, but they’re perpetually tainted by Naomi’s glower. 

“Can I come in?” Patrick calls through Naomi’s bedroom door one Sunday. He’s determined to at least  _ try  _ to bond with her - if he can deal with a terror like Jack, he can tame Naomi, too. 

“No,” she says immediately, “go away.” 

Patrick peeks around the door anyway. He’s never seen her bedroom before - it’s a haven of football posters and trophies and various drawings up on the walls. He feels a little intrusive; it’s like looking into her soul. 

“I said,  _ go away, _ ” Naomi repeats, turning round in her chair to face Patrick. “I don’t like you.” 

“Well, that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” Patrick says gently, opening the door but staying firmly the other side of the threshold. “I just - what do you not like about me?” 

“I don’t like anything,” she spits, “I don’t like your hats. Or your stupid glasses. I don’t like when you come in my room without asking.” 

Patrick feels his face flush with embarrassment. His glasses aren’t  _ that  _ stupid, right? He pushes them up his nose. “Well - um, I’m sorry. I know I’m not very sporty, and I’m not  _ cool,  _ or anything, but I really do like your dad and I think he wants us to be friends.” 

When she doesn’t spit fire at him, he shuffles into her room and perches on the very edge of her bed. She folds her arms. 

“You’re fat. I don’t make friends with fat people.” 

_ Ouch,  _ Patrick thinks, but there’s no use taking offence and he could use this to his advantage. “Well, that’s the thing - fat people are  _ so good _ at hugs. Way better than anyone else. If there was a trophy for hugs, I’d get it.” 

Naomi scoffs, but she doesn’t turn away and Patrick feels like they’re getting somewhere. “I don’t believe you,” she says, narrowing her eyes, but it’s a challenge now, and Patrick won’t back down. 

“Okay, well, why don’t I show you,” he says, opening his arms and smiling encouragingly. He smiles even wider when she stands begrudgingly and shuffles over to him. Once she’s near enough, he scoops her up in a hug, squeezing her tight for a few seconds before letting her go and sitting back, awaiting her verdict. 

“Hm. Six out of ten,” she says, and Patrick laughs, catching the shine of a smile behind her eyes. 

“What does your dad score?”

Naomi makes a face. “Like, three. He’s useless.” 

She giggles a little when Patrick does, and the man finally starts to relax. “Do you like me a  _ tiny  _ bit more, now?” 

“A  _ tiny  _ bit,” she emphasises, sticking out her jaw. “But I’ll  _ never  _ call you dad.” 

“That’s okay,” Patrick says gently, “you can call me whatever you want. Within reason,” he adds, before he lands himself in another shitstorm of insults. 

She’s still scowling when he leaves the room, but he’s sure he’ll win her over some day. 

-

 

_ Six months later _

 

Patrick feels Pete press a kiss to his cheek as they sit at the kitchen table, Naomi and Jack fidgeting opposite them. 

They’ve planned this - they’ve thought and rethought and pondered and discussed, but the simple truth is, if the kids aren’t happy, moving forward is impossible. Their future, their love, rests on this. 

“So, uh -” Patrick starts, reassured by the squeeze of Pete’s fingers over his own where they sit intertwined in the space between them. “So, the reason we wanted to talk to you is - well, your dad and I have been having some talks and we thought it might be nice if - if we moved in together.” 

The two kids stare at them blankly for a few tense seconds, before Jack pipes up, “What - with us?” 

Patrick would laugh if his heart wasn’t occupying his throat. “Yes? Of course with you.” 

“Basically, you and daddy would be living here permanently,” Pete supplies, and Jack’s eyes brighten. 

“Can I bring my toys?” 

“Yes, of course, you can bring everything,” Pete smiles, and Jack seems satisfied - his face doesn’t resemble a burning Pompeii. 

“But - uh, we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I don’t want to disrupt your life and I understand if you’re not alright with this,” Patrick says to Naomi, who has yet to react. 

But after a few seconds, Naomi simply demonstrates her dad’s trademark shrug. “Whatever. Can we get an Xbox?”

Pete scoffs. “In your  _ dreams.” _

“Aw, but you said you’d think about it!” Jack wails, backed up with a  _ yeah  _ from Naomi. 

“Yeah, and we have, and the answer is  _ no,”  _ Pete says firmly, but Patrick’s wavering. They could get the new Star Wars Battlefront. 

“I mean,” he says to Pete softly, “if it’ll keep them quiet…” 

“Thanks daddies!” Jack yells, springing from the table and hurtling off through the house before Patrick can undo it. 

“You’re the best, pa,” Naomi grins, and Patrick’s chest squeezes at the use of the name. It’s a relatively new thing, a compromise since he’d hated being called Pat. He’s also gone up two points in the hug ratings - something he and his belly are very proud of. He beams at her as she runs back to the lounge, then turns to face a softly smiling Pete. 

“Well - that went better than expected,” he muses, lacing their fingers together and shifting closer to Patrick. “Love you,” he adds with a peck to Patrick’s lips, “roomie.” 

Patrick grins, cupping Pete’s face in his hands and wondering how on earth he got so lucky. “Love you too,” he breathes, letting his eyes fall closed as he leans in for a proper kiss and feels the warmth of Pete’s mouth enveloping his own. He smiles as he thinks of how far they’ve come - how much he loves each corner of their patchwork family. 

He’s never been more grateful for an asthma attack. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is the fluffiest thing I've ever written, am I doing it right? Let me know in the comments or by giving me some kudos lovin', if you like. 
> 
> I hope you liked this, Platinum - I just wanted to say a huge happy birthday and a massive thank you for all the love and positivity you bring to all of us in bandom. You're an absolute gem. xx


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